Never Too Late
by KCS
Summary: Drabble series continuation of A Messy Business, continuing the original prompt involving overprotective!parental!Sherlock and cold-catching!wee!John. Warning for kidfic and ghastly amounts of fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: _Never Too Late _(1-3/?)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 221b each  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of _A Messy Business_. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four week. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** I didn't get to most of the original prompt in my previous drabble series. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote

_"It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes, private consulting detective and currently babysitterfoster parent extraordinaire, was by this point accustomed to snatching brief sleep periods whenever and wherever he could find. No longer was he able to go without sleep for days on end, not when he had a hyperactive child to look after and train into a normal childhood. In consequence, just as easily as he'd trained his body to not crave sleep, he'd now altered that programming to include regular, if abbreviated, sleep schedules. Granted, said sleep schedules usually ended with a three-year-old (give or take a few months at this point, he was no longer quite certain) pouncing on him, asking him loudly if he was awake, but it was a small price to pay to be fully alert for dangers to his young charge.

This time, however, namely the early hours of the morning in a chilly September day, he was awakened by a completely different set of motions and sounds. Sherlock blinked sleepily, trying to reel his brain back from its bizarre dreamland (this was why he hated sleeping, that twilight zone where his mind was completely unguarded), and then began to sit up, before realizing what it was that had penetrated his slumber.

Curled up on top of him, sniffling quietly into his sleep shirt, was a little warm body.

* * *

><p>As he sat up, John murmured a protest and clung to him spiderlike. He quickly put a supportive arm around the child.<p>

"What is it?" he asked, alert instantly, as he tried to pry the small hands off his shirt in an effort to see John's face. "Did you have a nightmare?" They'd been few, but vivid, as the abnormally growing body had been trying to assimilate the increasing memories of an adult.

The mop of blond curls, the only portion of the child's head he could see, shook vigorously.

"What, then?"

"Hurts," was mumbled into his chest.

"What hurts?" He had learnt patience over the last few days, but when it came to the care of another life – this life – he rapidly lost that patience having to repeat himself. "What hurts, John?"

The little one refused to answer, only cried a little; he could feel the small but growing damp patch. He gentle prized the child's fingers out of the fabric and lifted him, examining his face. John wasn't truly crying in pain, he knew the sound by this point (an active little boy liked to climb, he'd found out the hard way), so there must be something less tangible than a scraped knee or banged head.

Wait.

He sniffed again, and realized he smelt the faint traces of blueberry.

* * *

><p>"Does your stomach hurt?" he asked, trying desperately not to laugh.<p>

John looked shiftily about, one finger in his mouth, and Sherlock had the bizarre visual-over of the adult clearing his throat and whistling innocently.

"Did you eat the rest of Mrs. Hudson's pie when I _specifically _told you not to?" He had to give the child points for disposing of evidence, at least.

"Nooo…"

"John."

"YesImsowwy!"

"_Sorry_," he corrected automatically. The impediment only told now when John was emotionally upset, which showed Sherlock clearly how the little one was far more upset about his actions than their consequences.

"You mad?" John asked hopefully, and it broke his heart.

From the child's cringing the first time he'd gotten frustrated, he'd deduced that John's parents had not disciplined properly. No child should _fear_a parent's reactions; John's reaction bordered on suspected abuse. But by now, John had learnt that while Sherlock was strict about his few rules, his punishments fit the crimes.

Now, he chuckled and half-reclined, toddler cuddled against him. "No, I am not 'mad'," he answered, ruffling John's hair. "But you'll get no sympathy from me, you understand, if you have a stomach-ache. It is entirely your own fault."

"Was bad," John agreed dismally.

"Naughty, yes," he said. "But I highly doubt, John, that you could ever truly be _bad_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: _Never Too Late_  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four week. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p><em>"Is there a reason, Sherlock, why the emergency credit account which I have gifted you has shot up to over eight hundred pounds in the last week?"<em>

"Certainly," he replied, finally snagging John one-handed as he barreled past, brandishing a water gun and hollering at the top of his voice. "Your idiocy has inflicted a second childhood upon my flatmate. Do you have any idea what children cost, brother?"

John blinked up at the sound of his name, and Sherlock pointed to the mobile before bringing a finger to his lips. Nodding, the child scampered off to hide behind the sofa (how, Sherlock had no idea, but was curious as to the contortive capabilities).

_"That is no excuse to be dressing the little blighter in the most expensive shops in London! Do you have him in cashmere nappies or something?"_

He gave the phone a feral smile. "Don't be crude, Mycroft. And yours is not to question my parental capabilities, but to foot the bill for your scientists' idiocy. I daresay you would not like this little incident to be made known to certain people in Whitehall's research departments?"

_"If I see you before John is old enough to protect you, Sherlock –"_

"Yes, yes. Do call again, Mycroft, the next time you can tear yourself away from the dessert buffet."

* * *

><p>Sherlock tossed the mobile onto the leather chair, where it was engulfed under a veritable army of plush toys and Doctor Who figurines. "Very good, John; you may resume," he called in the direction of the couch, from which a blue eye was peeking at him. The boy remained silently hidden, however, and he crouched down. "John?"<p>

A stream of cold water hit him smack between the eyes, and he yelped, dashing the drops away from his face. Obviously, John's killer aim was just as accurate now, he mused ruefully, as a volley of giggles sounded. From the thuds, he judged the child was wriggling under the furniture commando-style. Smiling, he hopped up onto the back of the couch, perched like a raven, and waited.

A blond head finally poked out from under the couch, looked warily in all directions (besides up, as children are wont) over a carefully-held water gun, and was shortly followed by shoulders and torso as the little one edged out.

Sherlock pounced on him moments later, and the ensuing shriek of surprise was followed shortly by the painful impact of expensive plastic on human skull.

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or just lie there moaning, as a horrified John crawled on top of him and tried to pry his hands away from a rapidly-swelling bump.

* * *

><p>"Scared me!" the child was fairly wailing, tears welling up at the sight of the bruise forming around Sherlock's left cheekbone. "I didn' mean to!"<p>

He finally managed a sort of groaning laugh, and patted the child on the back. "Yes, I did scare you," he said, feeling a bit foolish. "That was not my intention, John, but apparently one learns these things through trial and error. It was not your fault."

The little one looked unconvinced, sitting on his chest with a miserable expression not unlike that of a sad kitten. Sherlock hauled himself upright, shifting the small figure to his shoulders, and then stood. John caught his hair as he wobbled, shifting the weight, and he made a mental note to not try that again either if it posed a danger. There was so much more to this parenting lark than he'd anticipated, unfortunately. He truly hoped he would not fail the test spectacularly.

"So, we make a note – no scaring John in future," he said, taking hold of the child's hands on either side of his head. "Yes?"

"…Yes," was the sniffled answer.

"Shall I show you how to play doctor, then?" he queried briskly, giving the tears no time to fall.

"Yesyesyes!" On his shoulders small legs bounced, and he smiled as they trotted toward the bath.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: _Never Too Late_  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four week. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>Sherlock's bruised face raised eyebrows the next day, but bringing a toddler to a crime scene raised more.<p>

"I don't care who he is – was – whatever, you're not bringing a _child _onto my bloody crime scene!" Anderson snapped, firmly planted in Sherlock's way. John blinked, head cocked to one side and Paddington Bear safely clutched under his chin. "No offense, kid," he added as an afterthought, because the intense stare was unnerving.

John smiled at him, which was even creepier, and to his and Sherlock's combined horror held out his arms for a transfer.

"No, no, no," he muttered, backing away. "That is just wrong on so many levels. Put him down, or you're not coming in, Freak."

Sherlock was already bending at the knees to place John's trainers safely on the ground. At the derogatory name, however, one of them made sound contact with Anderson's scrub-clad shin.

"Must not touch a child, must not touch a child," Anderson chanted under his breath, massaging his temples with both hands. "I hate you so much," he added over John's head.

"Mutual," was the laconic response. "John, behave yourself for Mr. Anderson while I attempt to salvage the wreck he's made of this, can you do that?"

John looked dubiously up at the scowling forensics expert, and hid his face in his bear.

* * *

><p>Sally Donovan <em>melted <em>at the sight of a tiny be-jumpered and be-Wellied version of the Freak's John, gender stereotype be hanged.

John looked thoroughly unimpressed by Anderson's method of child-minding, which entailed giving him a peppermint humbug and ignoring him in favor of yelling contradictions at Sherlock's insufferable head. She also saw the scowl which was being directed at Anderson's knees as the argument got a bit vicious, and knew intervention might be the only thing which would save her colleague – they weren't more than that, not since John had flatly told her one day that he knew she could do better and she was an idiot for not trying – from injury to sensitive portions of his anatomy.

"Hallo, John," she said, amiably enough, and crouched down in front of the scowling child. "What've you got there, then?"

John eyed her with wariness, but slowly uncurled his clenched arms from around the stuffed animal. "Is Paddington Bear," he muttered into the back of the furry head, peeking shyly over it at her.

"I see that," she agreed, smiling, and patted the bear's head (didn't think even wee John would appreciate the gesture on himself). "He's very soft. Who gave him to you?"

The little one nodded, hugging the toy tightly. "Sherlock," was the next (shocking) statement uttered into the slightly-damp bear.

* * *

><p>Sally cast an incredulous look at the Freak, who was crawling over the gore-spattered ground searching for God-knew-what, giving milling police a shove if their feet got too close to his precious observations. "Did he now." She wouldn't be surprised if the Freak was using the poor kid as an experiment, planning to see how much of an attachment he'd form to the bear and then taking it from him to gauge psychological trauma…<p>

John nodded vigorously. A blond curl drifted down over his forehead. "And a whole box of pencils! An' a Doctor Who an' a Dalek!"

"A what?"

John looked at her like she was an idiot. "Is a _toy_."

"Oh," she muttered, duly told. Freak was letting him play with action figures, then; that was safe enough…she hoped Sherlock wasn't going to get him a child's chemistry set and then – heaven help them all – teach him how to _use _it. "Is he…good to you, then?" Because if he wasn't, she didn't care how angry it made Sherlock, she wasn't going to let anyone hurt the kid.

"Yes." John looked at her, disconcertingly knowingly, and hugged his bear tightly. "Awways."

Sally had dealt with enough abused children to know when they were lying, and nothing relieved her more than the unadulterated _worship_ shining out of this one's baby blues.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: _Never Too Late (10-13)_  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>Detective Inspector Lestrade was juuuuust about down to his last raw nerve. As if Anderson and Donovan's sniping at each other wasn't bad enough (he totally sided with Sally about dumping Anderson, but he had to work with both of them, didn't he!), Sherlock was in fine form due obviously to the massive caffeine intake he'd turned to as his drug of choice in his transition from borderline-sociopath to foster parent. The man flitted – there was no other word for it, and he only looked ridiculous in that infernal coat – about the crime scene, picking up steam as he went, and before ten minutes had passed everyone in the vicinity had a migraine.<p>

Lestrade had never been more thankful for the timely intervention of John Watson, tiny though he might be just now. The distraction took the form of a sort of clumping limp as the child toddled over and yanked insistently on Sherlock's coat, turning a woeful expression up at his caretaker. One little red Wellie, originally discarded once they'd entered the building, was now on his foot, and the other obviously was stuck half-way.

He grinned as Sherlock's nattering paused abruptly. "What is it?" Sherlock asked, looking down at his small partner.

John looked sadly down at his feet, clutching Sherlock's coat in an effort to keep his balance.

* * *

><p>"It is not time to leave yet, John," Sherlock said, crouching down to wiggle the child's foot from its rubber prison.<p>

"Is," John said complacently. "Hungry."

Sherlock blinked; how could he possibly…? It had only been…oh. Six hours. This was the most difficult thing; he was not in the habit of eating regularly, much less making sure a whole other person did.

Still. He pulled John's trainer free. "We will get lunch soon, but I must finish here," he said sternly. "No, don't start," he added, seeing the child's features immediately assume a puppylike pout. "I am entirely immune, John."

John sniffled and hugged his leg. "I said no, John. Stop that." Behind him, Lestrade snorted. "Shut up," he snapped, annoyed. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm aware that parenting involves not _always _giving a child his own way!"

Everyone in the vicinity either burst out laughing or else hastily left the room.

"What?" he demanded, scowling over John's head.

"Freak, that kid is spoiled rotten," Sally said, trying not to melt completely. "He's got you wrapped around his little finger more than his adult self ever did!"

"And that's saying a lot, Sherlock," Lestrade interjected helpfully.

He scowled; this would never do. John was ruining his reputation, and he already had to fight to be taken seriously by these incompetent buffoons!

* * *

><p>This could not continue. He could not be perceived as anything but his chosen persona, were he to successfully complete his work. This new software was simply not compatible with his hard drive. The primary problem was, he could not very well delete his new responsibilities, nor could he continue as he had been pre-John (odd, how he judged his lifespan by that). This caring lark was destroying his reputation, and it needed to be deleted – but how does one delete something that has become a vital part of one's life?<p>

There was no help for it; he would simply have to deal with the onslaught of teasing and snarking and believing he was a disturbing oddity. His facade was his shield against the world, and this little person had long since cracked that shield. Now it was shattering, and he could not stop it.

His dismay must have shown on his face, because his small companion picked up on his distress with uncanny accuracy. Small arms unwound from his legs, and he looked down into a hopeful set of blue eyes. "Soon?" the little one asked, no longer insisting.

Oh, who was he trying to deceive; he was not about to delete this or anything else pertaining to one John H. Watson.

He'd already, long ago, lost that particular battle.

* * *

><p>He hoisted the child onto his shoulders. "Now, John – not the hair! Thank you. Can you see the main street?"<p>

"Yesssss!"

"Can you see when the red buses drive by?"

"Yes!"

"Well I want you to put all your fingers up in the air. And when you see a bus go by, put one down, like so." He gently folded down John's right pinkie finger.

"Why?"

"Because when all of your fingers are down, then it's time to eat," he explained, giving John a bounce.

"Okay!"

"And no cheating, mind," he said, tapping the toddler's leg as John sneakily changed the number from nine to seven.

He received a child-giggle, and turned back to Lestrade, who looked somewhere between planning a drugs bust and wanting to coo embarrassingly.

"What?"

"Nothing," the DI said with a smile, rocking on his heels. "Nothing at all, Sherlock."

He never saw, for all his observations, Donovan's eyes as he carefully worked John's foot into his Wellie and zipped his jacket. Even Anderson was too busy thanking any deity in earshot that Sherlock was concerned with John, to make fun of him for sentimentality.

But Sherlock never noticed, never saw Lestrade's fond grin as they walked away, John splashing into every puddle he could locate and Sherlock tolerantly holding the umbrella over a longsuffering Paddington Bear.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: _Never Too Late_  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

Note that this arc may skip around a bit as John ages, but I do want to start to answer the original John!whump prompt so here goes:

* * *

><p>It was inevitable, really, and Lestrade shouldn't have been surprised when it finally did happen. He couldn't fault Sherlock; the man had been almost creepily exemplary as a child-minder. But Sherlock was Sherlock, for all that, and Sherlock's more self-centric habits were hard to break. Ordinarily, this particular habit was more annoying than anything else, and only noticeable by the tolerance of his longsuffering flatmate and Lestrade's loyal indignation on John's behalf.<p>

But John Watson was not himself. And no one in the division ever forgot the day Sherlock got so excited over an incredibly lucky lead that he left a crime scene and completely forgot he had brought a five-year-old child along with him.

This was a terrible thing, but it was forgivable in Lestrade's opinion. Sherlock had been uncannily gentle with his tiny companion, and in the consultant's defense time was of the essence; also, Sherlock had a habit of blocking out everything until his brain caught up with its own deductions. In fact, it wouldn't really have been a problem, as there were plenty of his men about, all of them thoroughly infatuated with the tiny ray of sunshine which was tiny John.

What was unforgiveable, was that his entire cordon somehow missed the sight of a crying toddler shuffling alone out the front door of the building.

* * *

><p>Sally Donovan had seen Lestrade raise seven kinds of hell before, but never had she ever seen the man this close to wholesale sacking an entire group of detectives and forensics experts. And she'd have stood behind him the whole way, too; such incompetence was inexcusable.<p>

"So help me God if that kid isn't found in the next five minutes, I will have _all_ your jobs and I don't _care _about the consequences, is that understood!" The DI was currently roaring into his car radio, hands shaking slightly.

Sally pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to assuage a headache, and tried not to think about the hundred unspeakable things which could happen to an innocent child.

"Kid could be anywhere," she heard Anderson mutter uneasily from behind her, where he was demonstrating remarkable sense, carefully remaining out of Lestrade's firing line.

"He's _four_!" she snapped. "How far could he get in…six minutes?"

"I don't know if he gets it from living with that freak, or if it's just a side effect – but that kid's weirdly perceptive," he said, entirely without the usual rancor. "He's smart enough to pretend to be with an adult, and there's a bus stop less than two streets in each direction."

Both of which were heavily traveled intersections.

Sally felt sick.

"On it. Tell the boss."

* * *

><p>John did not mind that Sherlock had forgotten him; he had seen that light in Sherlock's eyes that meant John should be very very quiet because Sherlock's brain was trying to catch up with everything. And Sherlock left him sometimes, he knew that somehow – even if he couldn't remember exactly a time when Sherlock had done that, wasn't that strange?<p>

It made him sad that Sherlock forgot about him, and the clouds were sad too. Rain, cold and nasty, and a splash off an awning got into his left Wellie and he didn't like it but at least Sherlock had made him wear two jumpers so the rest of him was warm. The nice policemen were busy, and he didn't need them anyway; he had the emergency money Sherlock gave him stuck in his left trainer and so he could get on one of the big red buses he liked to sit in the window and watch. Surely one of them would take him home?

He saw one whiz by, close – too close, Sherlock had told him never to walk that close to the road and he would be in such trouble if Sherlock found out! He scurried over and tagged along behind a nice-looking lady in a long grey coat. They went the same direction as the big red bus.

* * *

><p>He had been walking <em>forever<em>, and that couldn't be right because it never took that long when he was with Sherlock, maybe because Sherlock walked too fast and had to kind of hop or carry him (John liked that, because he could see everything). Then a girl on skates knocked him down as she cut between him and a fat man with a newspaper.

John landed with a splash in the puddle and whimpered as cold water immediately soaked right through his trousers and the hem and sleeves of his jumpers. But Sherlock had told him when he fell off the dresser last week (chasing a bug that had crawled out of the bin) that crying was not wrong, but it usually didn't help anything, and so he wiped his nose on his sleeve and stopped. Shivering, he scrambled up and kept moving toward the bus stop – surely it was up here? Soon?

He was quite seriously wondering if Sherlock would be very angry if he spent the emergency money on hot cocoa, when a big big black car screeched to a stop right beside him.

"Hallo, John," a very pretty lady said, crouching in front of him.

John edged backward, and smacked into a lamp-post with a clang. "Sherlock said I not s'posed to talk to strangers," he nervously blurted.

* * *

><p>The lady smiled again, and she had a nice smile. But bad people had nice smiles too, Sherlock said, and Sherlock knew everything. Maybe he should run away.<p>

But he was so cold, and wet, and he wanted to cry and he wanted Sherlock to not forget about him again and he even wanted Sally to smile and pat him on the head because it was nice.

"And Sherlock was right," the lady said, smiling again. John noticed she didn't care that her nice shiny shoes were all wet because she was crouching in a mud puddle. "But I know you and Sherlock, so that means I'm not a stranger."

"D-don' b'lieve you," he mumbled, teeth beginning to chatter.

The lady looked slightly surprised, and then went back to smiling – bigger this time, like she was trying to not laugh at him. "Here," she said, holding out a mobile phone – different from Sherlock's – to him.

John took it and blinked at the small screen. It was lit up with a picture of him and Sherlock. Scowling, he shook his head and gave the phone back, careful to not drop it in the puddle.

"Still no," he said, shivering. "Sherlock says bad people can find out anything on the innernet!"

The lady laughed, this time. "You are a very stubborn little boy!"

* * *

><p>An enormous sneeze built up in his head and <em>exploded<em>. The pretty lady looked worried now. "John, I promise you I am your friend," she said slowly. John rubbed his eyes, sniffling. "Here, look." Fingers tapped on the keypad, and she showed him the phone. "Can you read yet?"

"Some," he mumbled, scrubbing a sleeve over his nose.

**Sent Messages (242/243)**  
><strong>To:<strong> M. Holmes  
>Found John. Bringing in.<p>

"That's my name!"

"Yes, it is," she agreed, smiling. "I'm telling…Mr. Holmes that I found you and I'm going to give you a ride so you don't get all wet, is that okay?"

"Where's it say that?" he asked suspiciously. Sherlock said to never trust a pretty girl, but he thought Sherlock might just be jealous because he'd never seen Sherlock have a pretty girl of his own. In fact Sherlock seemed to scare them away, John didn't know why. _He _wasn't scared of Sherlock. Sherlock was wonderful.

"Right here. See, that name is Holmes, and the message says 'Found John'."

"Why don' you call him S-sherlock?" John asked, slowly stumbling toward the beckoning warm glow of the car's lights.

The lady only smiled again at him, and opened the door. "I have a hot cocoa for you inside, if you want it…"

John lost no time in scrambling into the heated backseat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: _Never Too Late_  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>It had been an hour now, and Lestrade knew the probability of finding a child after being kidnapped decreased drastically after that. And no one had been able to locate Sherlock, which was both good (no one was going to be verbally eviscerated) and bad (it was going to be that much more tornadic when it happened).<p>

Five-year-old John Watson had disappeared completely.

"We're all dead men," Anderson moaned, dropping his head against the steering wheel.

Lestrade thought about denying it but knew it was true. _Everyone _is afraid of a scared sociopath.

"Don't look at me," Donovan said dryly when he turned around. "I'm not telling him."

Lestrade ran a hand slowly over his face. Sherlock was going to kill them all, and then himself probably, for forgetting about the kid in the first place.

In his pocket his phone rang. Slowly he looked at the screen, expecting to see Sherlock's number – what was he going to say? – but he froze a moment later.

"That him?" Sally asked worriedly.

"No, it's a blocked number," he breathed, hand over his mouth.

"On it," Anderson snapped, reaching for the radio. "If it's a kidnapper we'll have it triangulated in two minutes."

"Hello?"

The voice was cultured, but his police instincts crawled at the audible undercurrent of danger. _"Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I believe?"_

* * *

><p>"This is he," he said slowly. "Who's speaking?"<p>

_"I do not believe we have met in person, Detective Inspector, but you know my name from the search you conducted of one of my laboratories a fortnight ago."_

"Wait, you're Sherlock's creeper brother?"

Amusement was clear in the voice. _"If that is the word you choose, I have not the time to contradict you, Detective Inspector. Please contact my brother and inform him I have something which belongs to him?"_

"If John's been hurt in any way, I don't care who you are, I swear I will _end_you, and furthermore –"

_"While endearing and amusing, your loyalty would be ineffective as a weapon to displace my position of power, Detective Inspector. We will meet again."_

"Wait a second –" He swore as the line disconnected. "Forget it, Anderson. I know where the kid is."

The man sighed with relief he'd never show if Sherlock had been there. "Well, that's good."

"We're not out of the woods yet."

"How's that?"

"Have you ever seen a scared sociopath?"

"Uh…"

"Exactly."

Lestrade sighed and turned to his Recent Calls list, scrolling downward. Anderson raised an eyebrow. "Your funeral."

"I don't get paid enough for this." Repressing a whimper as the phone rang out, he left Sherlock a voicemail asking him to call back.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes had been more than a little dismayed to learn that some of his best scientists had followed incorrect procedures, and that John Watson had gotten caught in the crossfire. John had only been following Sherlock's orders in investigating (a suspect had been one of his rehabilitated young people), and now the man was trapped in the form of a child for however long it took for the temporary rehabilitation to wear off.<p>

John appeared to be well cared for, and Sherlock was flourishing bizarrely in his position of caregiver; he was pleased to see the change, as he'd never dreamed anything could effect such. However, his brother was still himself, and as such he had been watching constantly to make sure nothing of this sort happened to John when Sherlock did finally make a mistake.

Anthea had gotten the little one into dry clothes and had gotten a cup of cocoa and a few biscuits into him, and John was currently sitting in a chair across from him, watching him with wide eyes as he hung up the phone from talking to DI Lestrade.

"Are you quite comfortable, John?" he asked, setting down the receiver.

John nodded, looking around him at the opulent furniture. "Who you?" he asked shyly, picking at the sleeve of his unfamiliar jumper.

"I am Sherlock's brother," he replied.

John eyed him skeptically. "Huh."

"My name is Mycroft, John."

The child giggled behind his hands. "Your mum named all you weird," he said, smiling up at his unknown benefactor.

* * *

><p>"I suppose so," he agreed, smiling back despite himself. The child really was too adorable at this age. Had he known that it would only take a pair of bright blue eyes and a worshipping smile to melt Sherlock's heart, he would have bought the man a kitten long ago. "Do you require anything else, John?"<p>

The child looked at him, mystified.

He wondered if he could get away with handing John off to his PA, though the retaliation might not be worth the effort. Sighing patiently, he rephrased. "Can I get you anything you want, John?"

The little one cocked his head, giving Mycroft a shrewd look. "I wanna cuppa tea. Sherlock won' let me have any because caf-feeen," he said woefully.

Mycroft hid a smile. "He is quite correct, I'm afraid," he replied, though the temptation to dose the child with sugar and caffeine in retaliation for Sherlock's carelessness was strong. "Besides, you look a bit sleepy."

"Am not," John murmured, scrubbing a sleeve across his nose and then rubbing his eyes.

"You are welcome to take a nap until Sherlock comes for you, John."

"Not s'eepy." A small sneeze punctuated the declaration, and John's head drooped. "Weally. Want Sherlock."

Not even he was immune to the sad plea, and he vowed to make life miserable for his brother.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title**: _Never Too Late_  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>"Well, I am sleepy," he finally said, in a truly brilliant flash of inspiration. "I usually take a nap about this time in my chair at least. Would you mind that?"<p>

John raised a tiny skeptical eyebrow. "Grownup people don' need naps," he stated disdainfully.

"Did Sherlock tell you that?"

"Yes."

Honestly, he wanted to throttle Sherlock sometimes. "Well, sometimes they do."

"Okay," John said doubtfully.

"You are welcome to sit over there by the window while I sleep," Mycroft added, indicating the window seat, under which was a heating vent running at full blast.

John sneezed again, and scrambled out of his chair with a truly alarming amount of energy. He bounced to the window and pressed his nose against the glass, knees on the seat. "Buses!"

"Obviously," Mycroft muttered, popping two paracetamol dry and then scrawling a signature across the tablet at his elbow.

John muttered something stroppy, eyelids fluttering heavily. Not ten seconds passed before he was snuggling into the afghan Anthea had somehow mysteriously conjured into existence.

In a matter of seconds, the child was asleep, breathing heavily – a little too heavily; he was obviously coming down with a cold. Mucus was not something Mycroft was interested in dealing with.

Should John be sick all over his upholstery, Sherlock would regret the day he was ever born.

* * *

><p>Mycroft had intended to make Sherlock squirm, more for John's sake than because he thought it might make Sherlock be more careful. He had a chastising speech prepared and ready for when his baby brother made his appearance, and was just finishing up a final parental injunction when the door to his office was flung open with enough force that the knob bounced off the protective rubber on the wall (had it not been there, a hole would have been punched in the wallpaper).<p>

He took one look at the sheer unbridled panic in Sherlock's eyes before mentally shredding his speech.

The last time he'd seen his brother so distraught was when at six years old Sherlock had discovered a nest of dead baby birds in a tree on their estate. He'd never expected to see such a horrified panic control his brother ever again – but here the man was, about ten seconds from hyperventilation.

"Mycroft," Sherlock gasped, rubbing a shaking hand across his mouth as he spied the small bundle curled up on the window-seat. "I – Mycroft – " The words ended in a sort of strangled croak, and Mycroft nearly gaped as his brother slid down the wall to the floor, forehead resting on his knees. He was trembling all over, and not from being rain-soaked.

This was Very Bad.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock," he said calmly. "I want you to take a deep breath and hold it. Very good. Let it out. And again."<p>

His brother shuddered and then staggered to his feet, practically stumbling over them to the window.

"You made a mistake, Sherlock, but an understandable one. There was no permanent harm done."

He watched as a shaking hand ghosted gently over John's still-damp hair. "Do you have any idea how many predators statistically walk that section of the city even in daylight, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice was shaking worse than his hands, busy as they were tucking the blanket more securely round the sleeping child.

"I could guess, Sherlock," he answered gently. "But nothing happened."

His brother whirled on him, eyes haunted. "That is not the point!"

"No, it is not," he agreed. "But for now, Sherlock, that little boy needs you to simply take care of him. He does not know the danger he was in, and there is no reason he should. Put your self-recrimination away, at least for now."

John stirred as his little face scrunched up to sneeze, snuffling into the blanket. Blue eyes flickered open as Sherlock knelt beside him, and a sudden smile lit up the room.

"S'eepy, Sherlock," he mumbled, rubbing a small fist against the one eye that wasn't hidden in the blanket.

* * *

><p>A thin smile shattered the tension in the detective's face. "I know," he said softly. "I'm going to take you home now."<p>

"'Kay." John sneezed again, and Mycroft winced as the little one rubbed his nose with the afghan. John sat up, blanket pooling around him, and looked at his makeshift tissue. Frowning, he scrunched his face up. "Ew."

Sherlock managed a weak laugh, more at Mycroft's horrified expression than anything else, and scooped his small flatmate up into his arms, hugging him close without another thought. He was not going to leave without saying something, however, for he was quite literally unsure if he could live with the guilt of not at least asking for the forgiveness he already knew he'd been given.

"John, I am…I am so sorry I…forgot about you," he murmured into the child's curls. "It was inexcusable and…and I have no idea what I can do to properly apologise."

John blinked sleepily up at him for a moment, before obviously deciding whatever Sherlock's offenses, they were not enough to negate the childlike trust Sherlock knew he'd never deserve. John sniffled and curled one hand into his coat, snuggling against his shoulder and closing his eyes again.

"'S aww fine," the child mumbled into his shoulder, and Sherlock had never in his life wanted to weep so badly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title**: _Never Too Late (28-33/?)_  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>Lestrade regarded Sherlock as a sort of son-which-he-never-had-and-was-fairly-glad-about-it, just like he regarded his subordinates as a family, complete with bickering siblings and petty jealousies. But as he let himself in 221b, he sighed, and wondered when he'd changed from seeking out Sherlock because he was desperate and thought the man might someday become a good person, to seeking him out because he was worried.<p>

He found Sherlock upstairs, sitting on the couch and doing nothing more productive than staring at the opposing wall.

"Why are you not answering my texts?" he asked without preamble, because he'd seen Sherlock in every state from depressed to stoned to spastic, and he'd never seen the man look this…empty. It was actually frightening.

"I was about to call," Sherlock replied mechanically, hands pressed together between his spread legs. He glanced up as Lestrade shut the door behind him. "Leave that open."

He obeyed, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"I have no baby monitor," was the quiet reply.

"Are you all right?" Lestrade asked suddenly, moving to sit on the couch beside him.

"I do not believe so." And he was actually admitting it? Lestrade was beginning to be thoroughly creeped out.

"You were about to call me, you said?"

"I was." Sherlock dropped his forehead into his hands. "Lestrade, how hard will contacting Social Services be?"

* * *

><p>Stunned, he could only stare at the man for the first few seconds. Then he exploded.<p>

"You cannot possibly be serious, Sherlock!"

Eyes flashing, Sherlock's head jerked up. "Oh, I assure you, I have never been more serious in my life."

"You are _not _going to hand that kid over to a social worker, Sherlock! Do you have any idea what it would do to him?"

"Do you have any idea the danger I put him in today?"

"I also know that it's the first mistake you've made in weeks, Sherlock – and frankly I'd never thought I'd say this but…I'd trust you with any kid. Still would, even after today."

Sherlock sagged, eyes on the floor. "You are an idiot if you believe that," he whispered.

"And you're an idiot for trying to pull this same stunt again," he snapped.

"Stunt?" Sherlock asked indignantly.

"You tried this rubbish right after that business at the pool, Sherlock," he retorted. "Tried to run John off because you were _scared_, verbally abused us all at the Yard so that no one would think we'd be effective weapons against you. It's your method of operation when something upsets that little brain-world you live in, Sherlock, and for once _you_ will listen to _me_. You are _not_ going to do this to that innocent little boy."

* * *

><p>"He will be safer."<p>

"He'll be heartbroken!" He roared, finally losing it with this insufferable, amazing, horrendously clueless genius.

"Lestrade." Sherlock wouldn't even look him in the eye. "You know the statistics better than I do. You know what could have…happened."

He swallowed, remembering unspeakable, nightmarish cases. "Nothing happened, Sherlock," he said quietly. "Could have? Yes. But nothing did. And you can't let one mistake destroy you."

"You know me, Lestrade. You know I don't easily change my behavior patterns," Sherlock said, lifeless. "I will make the same mistake again."

"Bull," he retorted. "You and that mental hard drive of yours – you listen to me. You delete things that are unimportant, correct?"

A curt nod.

"Is John important?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"_Is _he?"

"Yes!"

"Is his safety important?"

"It is paramount," Sherlock said quietly.

"Then are you likely to delete an incident which serves as a reminder to you of that safety?"

Slate-grey eyes blinked at him. "…Not likely to, no," Sherlock said slowly.

"Then I don't see the problem," Lestrade stated, matter-of-fact.

"The probl-" Sherlock broke off suddenly as the crying of a terrified child came from upstairs. In two seconds he'd bolted from the room.

Lestrade reached the hall in time to see a small blur of fleecy pyjamas hurl itself into Sherlock's arms, crying bitterly.

* * *

><p>He looked worriedly over John's head. "Nightmares?" he mouthed.<p>

Sherlock nodded, clutching the little one protectively, one hand cupping the back of the tousled head as John sobbed something unintelligible into his shoulder.

"He's not…remembering his adult life, is he?" he asked softly.

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft says part of the regression therapy involves the child remembering nothing of a past life, other than vague sensory memories. That is why he's never asked where his parents are, or questioned his life with me."

"Thank God," Lestrade breathed; he didn't want to contemplate a toddler having nightmares about Afghanistan. "What, then?"

John burrowed into Sherlock's dressing gown, one small hand clutching desperately at the lapel. "Tonight," Sherlock said quietly, and Lestrade's heart broke a little, "he's been dreaming about being left alone."

"That can't possibly be brought on entirely by today, Sherlock," he remonstrated. "Nightmares like that are common in kids."

"Are they?" Sherlock asked morosely, resting his chin on John's curls. "Somehow I doubt their grounds in reality, Lestrade."

"Sherlock." He stepped cautiously closer, careful to not alarm the still-crying child. "Have you stopped to think about this for a second?"

"I have done little else," Sherlock whispered.

"Then why hasn't it occurred to you, that John was utterly unconcerned with the fact that you left him?" he asked bluntly.

* * *

><p>Sherlock looked a bit like someone had hit him with a golf club. "I beg your pardon?"<p>

"The kid was fine, Sherlock – for pity's sake, he left the scene with the intention of going home, and he was completely fine with waiting for you with your brother! You're blaming yourself for something _he _isn't even blaming you for!" He saw incomprehension in Sherlock's eyes, and continued. "Was he upset when you came to get him at Mycroft's?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly. "But –"

"But nothing," Lestrade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He might as well adopt this idiot, for all the fatherly counseling he was doing of late. "Sherlock, you didn't bring this on because the kid wasn't afraid when you left him."

The light of wild hope which sprang into those horribly dead eyes made him want to do something stupidly sappy like crying or hugging the both of them until they could never look each other in the face again.

"John," he said softly, running two fingers along the child's cheek as he sniffled into Sherlock's shoulder. "Do you remember who I am?"

John sneezed violently into Sherlock's lapel with enough force that his head bounced against the detective's collarbone. He looked so surprised that Lestrade laughed.

"'Stwade," John murmured, peeking at him with one baby blue.

* * *

><p>"That's right. John, I need to ask you a question, all right?"<p>

"'Kay."

"Do you want to come stay with me or Sergeant Donovan for a while, or do you want to stay here with Sherlock?"

The child's eyes widened, and he clutched with both hands at Sherlock's dressing gown. "Stay!" he said, lower lip wobbling dangerously.

The DI looked pointedly at Sherlock, who appeared somewhere between utterly lost and hopelessly enamoured. "As a police officer, I can't remand a child into protective custody or call SS if there's no evidence of abuse and the child has no desire to leave," he said. "So you can shove that idea –"

Sherlock hastily covered John's exposed ear, amid a giggle from the toddler. Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Best get him some kids' cough syrup if that gets any worse," he warned; it wasn't that he expected Sherlock to ignore John's cold but rather that he'd freak out and overmedicate. The man could give any doting grandmother competition with the look-twice-at-my-kid-and-you're-a-pervert act. "Good-bye, John."

"Bye," John murmured shyly, waving at him over Sherlock's shoulder.

"And for pity's sake eat something, Sherlock – you look like an anorexic lamppost!" he bellowed as he trotted down the steps.

The response was rude, as usual, and Lestrade grinned to himself. It was good to have Sherlock back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title**: _Never Too Late_ (34-38/?)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was not, contrary to popular belief, a morning person. Granted, he was usually more alert than most in the mornings, but then he could be more alert than ninety-nine percent of the population while <em>sleepwalking<em>, so that was not much of an accomplishment. His early rising was due more to his inability to shut his brain off for more than six hours at a time on a Very Good Night (usually two, maximum), than to a desire to greet the sunrise with the sort of cheerful twittering that made him want to strangle anyone who dared to look so positively _chirpy_ as the clerk behind the bakery counter was currently doing.

Mrs. Hudson was well-acquainted with the owners of the cafe next door to 221B, a fact which he shamelessly exploited whenever it suited his purpose, and so he had no trouble procuring a jam doughnut and two cinnamon buns as well as a small carton of milk for half-price from the entirely too perky clerk. Thus armed against a sea of troubles in the form of a grumpy, sickly five-year-old, he returned to the sitting room, where he'd left John bundled up in front of the telly watching _K-9._

He was ambushed by an assortment of toy figures directly underfoot as he entered, proudly brandishing the paper bag.

* * *

><p>He went sprawling on the floor amid a horrendous crunch of plastic.<p>

John's blond head poked up above a makeshift blanket-fort, warplane in each hand. Sherlock was treated to a highly unfair scowl.

"I told you to stay put, did I not?" he growled. Three army-men were currently embedded in his jacket. "Do not give me that look, John."

"You crunched my tank," the little one said, looking woefully down at the remains.

"You left your tank in the _danger zone_, John; what did you expect to happen?" he asked, wary of causing a tantrum but not about to apologize for nearly breaking his neck.

The child scowled blackly at him, and his skin crawled. "Perhaps you could pretend it was blown up by IEDs?" he hazarded.

John sniffed loftily. "Is World War _Two_," he said haughtily, as if Sherlock were an unforgivable moron.

"Yes, well, perhaps it is a _time-traveling_ IED," he snapped rather testily, picking his way around the scattered army men - please let that not be a field hospital John had set up for broken toys on the coffee table!

John shot him a look that clearly said _you are such an imbecile_. "Milk?"

Eyes rolled toward the ceiling, Sherlock wondered if he had ever caused Mummy such suicidal urges. "Yes, I got your precious milk."

"Beans?"

* * *

><p>He shoved a plate containing the jam doughnut, against his better judgment, into John's lap, and placed a plastic cup of milk with a coaster on the coffee table. "No. Sit still and eat that," he admonished, while reading the label on the back of the cough syrup to see what the acceptable dosage was (this was, he had gathered from the well-meaning checkout girl at Sainsbury's, not an opportunity to experiment with dosage and efficacy).<p>

"You crunched my _tank_!"

In other words, he was not forgiven, though the offering of jam-flavored worship was being consumed with all the eagerness of a starving godling.

"Mycroft will buy you an entire army to replace it, John - now open." He held the spoonful of viscous liquid over a serviette. Frankly the concoction smelled rather like a combination of rancid liquorice and furniture polish, but John's cold was not getting any better and therefore the syrup would be administered forthwith.

Until John's mouth snapped shut in alarm at the smell.

"Open."

"Mm-mm." Blond curls shook vigorously.

"I did not _ask_ you, John," he said in that dangerous tone which made inexperienced PCs nearly wet themselves. "Open your mouth, this instant, or would you prefer I stand you in the corner again for twenty minutes and you will still have to take it besides?"

* * *

><p>The child's blue eyes welled up with tears at the tone and the threat; it had proven to be a most effective punishment, far more so than whatever monstrosities John's parents had inflicted upon him in his original childhood. Sherlock had discovered through a series of experiments that ignoring the little one for an extended period of time produced a far more alarming rate of repentance than any other punishment could. The obvious conclusion was that the child was somewhat starved for affection; unsurprising, in a household with a problem daughter, and inattentive and verbally abusive parents.<p>

"You remember what happens when I have to repeat myself, John?" he asked calmly. The child's lips trembled, but Sherlock remained unmoving. "Open. _Now_."

John did, and quickly screwed up his face at the taste.

"Yes, it is rather beastly stuff," Sherlock agreed, wiping the residue off the little one's face. "But there, it is over now, eh?"

John sniffled into his milk cup, which he was currently half-drowning his tongue in.

Sherlock sighed, and sat back on his heels to search the internet for ways to make a child consume the proper medicine when ill. No such luck; he only discovered that dairy products on a sore throat were not ideal.

Lovely. He'd only been up an hour, and had already blundered badly.

* * *

><p>"Would you like one of the juice boxes I got at the shop?" he asked a moment later, when it appeared John's sulk was giving way to genuine misery as the child sneezed into his sleeve with an expression of pain.<p>

"No," the child whispered, somewhat hoarsely. "Ta, Sh'rlock."

He rummaged through the third bag and unearthed the thermometer Sylvia (the girl at the shop, who had been more helpful than was necessary, and who had written her phone number on the back of his receipt) had recommended. It looked rather like a prop from one of John's horrid science-fiction movies. (1)

John cracked open one eye in great interest as he pointed the thermometer at the child's flushed face.

"What you doing?"

"Taking your temperature," he murmured absently, following the directions regarding which buttons to push and for how long. "Hold still."

"You shooting me!"

"I am not shooting you," he sighed, praying silently for patience. "I said hold still, John! I daresay your temperature is not 2 degrees!"

John squirmed on the couch, reaching up for the instrument.

"John Hamish Watson, you will be still _this instant_!"

The child froze, eyes wide. The thermometer beeped happily, and Sherlock finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Until he looked at the display, and saw that the previous night's fever was coming back.

* * *

><p>(1) At the school where I teach, we do have a battery-operated thermometer for the kids and it looks like a phaser off of Star Trek, in my opinion. :P<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

**Title**: _Never Too Late_ (39-42/?)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>"Wanna see."<p>

"No," he replied mechanically, still trying to reel his brain back from the precipice of sheer I-have-no-idea-what-I'm-doing panic.

"Please?"

"I said no, John." Mrs. Hudson was here when he left for Sainsbury's (clueless about child-rearing as he was, he knew from limited experience that leaving one alone for more than three minutes was Not Good), but she was now gone to run errands and she did not have a mobile...Mycroft would hardly care, Sarah had not been notified for obvious reasons that her friend-who-used-to-be-her-boyfriend was now a five-year-old.

So whom could he call? Should he take John to A&E? Should he put him to bed? Should he consult the online medical world? He was hardly the expert on care-giving for any age, and children were such fragile little people! He had long ago deleted any information which was not relevant to his skills and his work, and therefore had absolutely nothing in his mind-palace from which to draw regarding a sick child.

Especially _this_ child.

"Pleeeeease?"

"John, will you be _quiet_ for just one minute!" he exclaimed, both hands (one still holding the thermometer) clenched in his hair.

To his utter horror, John's head drooped, and he started to cry.

Sherlock had never felt so small. What kind of man was he, to cause pain to a little boy?

* * *

><p>Horrified, he swooped down and only half-reluctantly accepted the sniffling bundle of dinosaur pyjamas and sticky fingers which crawled into his lap seeking comfort.<p>

"There, shhhh. You have nothing to cry about," he murmured helplessly, while firing off a text with his free hand, the other having discarded the thermometer in favor of winding around the child's back. "I was not angry, John, not with you at least. I am..." Worried? Frantic? Afraid I am going to _kill_ a child because I have no idea what I am doing? "...trying to figure out something."

"Don' feel good," John sobbed into his shirt-front, followed by a spate of hiccoughs which shook the little body alarmingly.

"I know," he said, eyes on his mobile screen, willing the reply to appear. "I know."

John loosed an impressive sneeze, and he tried not to think about the various elements which were probably being coated onto his clothing. "Ow," the boy whimpered, burrowing into him with a shiver.

Sherlock tugged the afghan from where it was stuck in the couch and wrapped it around them both, while scouring the web on his mobile for answers. Those that he found were varied, unhelpful, and in many cases suspect; he knew enough about medicine and basic chemistry to know half the remedies in circulation were so much bunk.

* * *

><p>John had finally calmed enough to accept a juice box (orange, because grape-and-berry-medley was apparently 'yuck,' Sherlock had been informed), and was slurping its contents when Sherlock's mobile finally chirped.<p>

Sending someone  
>around now. Do<br>try to remain calm.

M

He had truly sunk low, to be asking help of his brother, but then John's second childhood was Mycroft's fault and so the man could jolly well send 'round a doctor who would ask no questions about custody and other legalities which could arise should he take John to a pediatrician.

"Done," John announced, and flung the nearly-empty box onto the coffee table.

Sherlock caught it before the dregs dribbled onto the wood. "We do not throw things, John," he scolded. "Where does rubbish go?"

"Your desk, 'til Mrs. Hudson picks it up," John replied impishly, while unsuccessfully hiding a giggle.

"Brat." He smiled, taking any sting out of the epithet. "I am a grownup; I am allowed."

John huffed and drooped against him, coughing.

"Cover your mouth," he admonished, moving his arm to encircle his small companion. He reached for the television remote and began scrolling for a suitable channel.

A muffled apology was barely audible over the garish cartoon he selected, but he heard it nonetheless. He tightened his grip protectively, and shot off another text to his brother.

* * *

><p>Having set things in motion, he cast frantically about for another method of comfort (not his area, John), and espied a familiar object on the floor.<p>

He leaned forward to pick it up, and received a brilliant smile and two small outstretched hands. After plopping the Paddington Bear into John's arms, he allowed the little one to wriggle about until he had obviously found a position which was comfortable for him: namely, curled up in Sherlock's lap, one arm wrapped around the bear's neck and the other hand snagging a handful of Sherlock's jacket.

Sherlock tried not to think about the awkwardness which would occur should John remember his second childhood upon reverting to his adult self; that was not a mind-discussion he wanted to have sober.

And to top it all off, Lestrade _would_ pick that morning to come back and check on them without announcing his arrival.

The Inspector had a key to the flat (Mrs. Hudson's rule, given after the third night in which banging on the door at midnight had woken her from a soother-induced slumber) and used it most of the time for expediency's sake. Now, his unmistakable tread was clearly audible on the stairs.

Sherlock was beginning to think Lestrade was becoming _horrifyingly_ sentimental, taking it upon himself to look after the occupants of 221-B.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title**: _Never Too Late_ (43-49)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>"You really aren't doing either of you any favors getting worked up, you know."<p>

"I am not getting _worked up_, Lestrade!" The shout was a bit higher-pitched than he'd anticipated, and Lestrade's eyebrows inched upward. "I am merely...concerned." The eyebrow brushed the inspector's hairline. "Shut up!" He threw the dirty dishes into the sink, dumping soap over them (too much, four inches of bubbles, John would love to play in it but he was upstairs with Dr. Pendleton and Sherlock was going to slowly _poison_ the pediatrician if he did not come back _post-haste_).

"Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with saying you're worried - for pity's sake, he's just a kid! It's _allowed_."

Sherlock whirled round dramatically, the effect somewhat dampened by flinging suds in every direction. "He's not 'just a kid,' Lestrade! He is _John_, and he is in danger of developing pneumonia!"

Sighing, the inspector handed him a towel. "You, jumping to premature conclusions, not something I thought I'd ever see," he said calmly. "Kids get sick all the time, Sherlock. It doesn't mean he's got pneumonia. Why d'you think that?"

Sherlock nodded toward his mobile on the table. "According to his sister," (unpleasant conversation, he was not about to explain why he wanted to know, testament to how much she cared that she didn't ask) "he's had it before."

* * *

><p>"As a child, you mean?" That wasn't good, though it didn't mean similar danger. Sherlock practically doted on the child, worse than any dotty grandmother Lestrade had ever seen, and care and watchfulness went a long way toward preventing childhood illness.<p>

"Yes, about seven years old," Sherlock snapped, shoving the phone in his pocket. "Doctor Pendleton, I should like John back before he reverts to adulthood!"

Dishes rattled in the cupboard behind them at the force of Sherlock's bellow, even directed up the stairs as it was. Lestrade winced as the man paced back through the door, running both hands through his hair.

"No, not worked up at all," he observed mildly.

Sherlock spun on his heel, skidding a bit on the damp floor, and gave him a look that would peel paint.

"I hope he skips the teenage years, or you're going to drive him out of his mind with that hovering, Sherlock. Now for pity's sake, sit down! Are you on something?" The look of utter horror was answer enough, and he held up an apologetic hand. "All right, that was a bit out of line, but seriously, I've never seen you this...antsy, before."

"I've never been forced to raise a child from toddlerhood before," was the sharp rejoinder, as Sherlock flung himself into the nearest chair, scowling blackly.

* * *

><p>"And you really are doing a fine job of it, you know that, yeah?"<p>

A snort. "I left him at a crime scene, Lestrade, during the consequences of which he no doubt caught this chill. Were I anyone other than your private consultant toward whom you're a bit biased, you'd have me arraigned before a SS hearing before the week was out."

"You're wrong," Lestrade chided, sitting opposite him. "Even Donovan didn't blame you for leaving the kid, though if I were you I'd steer clear of Her Highness for a while. You forget she deals with abused children when we land those kinds of cases - background in child psychology, remember? - and John has never shown any indications of even coming close to being one."

"This time around," was the nearly inaudible mutter, which raised a red flag in Lestrade's mind. Before he could voice a question, however, the door opened, and Dr. Pendleton entered, a very stroppy five-year-old dragging his heels alongside.

John uttered a whimper of misery and climbed up onto his guardian's lap without preamble, which made Lestrade smile and Sherlock's ears turn a veritable study in pink.

"Mean doctor," the child wailed into Sherlock's shirt, pointing over his shoulder at the physician. "Mean!"

Flustered, Sherlock sputtered for an apology while patting the little one's back.

* * *

><p>Pendleton smiled amiably enough at them. "Not an uncommon reaction to being fed a vitamin shake," he chuckled. "I am sorry to have taken so long, but Mr. Holmes the elder was quite clear with my instructions."<p>

"And?"

"While he is expressing pain when sneezing and coughing, it appears to be just a severe cold and the first stages of bronchitis - not pneumonia, as you expressed concern over. He's going to be a pretty miserable little boy for about two weeks, but bronchitis rarely is serious enough for hospitalization."

Lestrade grinned as John squeaked, for the arms around him had tightened.

"A regimen of proper nutrition - less sugar, and more vegetables, no matter what John says," the doctor continued, smiling as the child scowled at him, "will be crucial to his development and recovery. I have complete instructions here, and supplements. The fever is likely due to his abnormally rapid aging; the body is simply burning up all fuel. Nothing more serious."

"You are quite certain?" Sherlock asked sharply, fixing the physician with his most intimidating glare.

"Your brother chose me for a reason, Mr. Holmes; namely, that I have been the attending physician to _all_ of his 'rehabilitated' subjects," the man replied dryly. "I daresay I am as expert in such cases as it is possible to be."

* * *

><p>"Half a tick," Lestrade said suddenly, "don't you have to x-ray a kid's lungs to see if he's got pneumonia?"<p>

"Quite," Pendleton said calmly. "My staff is removing the portable laboratory as we speak."

Sherlock hid his grin in John's curls, for the detective inspector's eyes looked about to pop out of his head.

"Brother mine's influence is, shall we say, extensive."

"Indeed." The physician nodded to them, and then moved to be in John's eyesight. "You are going to be fine, John, if you do what Sherlock says, all right? You are a brave boy!"

Peering over Sherlock's shoulder, John looked thoroughly unimpressed.

The doctor laughed. "Best give him some fortified juice and put him to bed for now, Mr. Holmes," he added, handing a tablet to the detective. "I've shown him how to use his inhaler, and left a list of child-safe medications you may give him without worrying about reactions with the re-aging process. Then read these instructions carefully, and if anything changes or you are in need of assistance, my contact information is there."

Sherlock belatedly remembered, after the man had left, that a thank-you was probably warranted; that was a primary reason he missed his adult flatmate, for no one else dared to attempt his conversion into societal niceties.

Lestrade, for one, evidently wasn't that brave.

* * *

><p>Frankly, Sherlock was equal parts uneasy (his brain helpfully supplied the phrase 'creeped out') and relieved (thank God Lestrade was good with cranky children, because after a tantrum Sherlock was pulling his hair out) that Lestrade came by again mid-afternoon, offering to spend his evening off helping out.<p>

He'd extensively questioned the inspector before finally accepting that Lestrade had no ulterior motive and was not going to exact blackmail as Mycroft would have.

"I love kids, you great berk!" Lestrade had finally exploded, after a forty-minute session of verbal evisceration by an overly suspicious John-protector. "Is that so hard to grasp, or are you _trying_ to be difficult?"

"How was I to know?" he demanded, arms folded. "You don't _have_ any."

Painful fury flashed, and Sherlock knew instantly that had been a Not Good thing to say. "Not for lack of trying, the wife and I," Lestrade finally mumbled, looking down at the golden-haired child dozing on his lap.

Sherlock winced. John would have his head for that, though in all fairness it was not something he could deduce from trouser cuffs and fingernails.

"I...that is..." He cleared his throat, while picked at a loose string in the Union Jack cushion. "...I'm..."

"A bloody idiot," Lestrade supplied, with a tolerant grin.

John's cough medicine-hazy eyes popped open with a shocked blink.

* * *

><p>"You sweared!" the child gasped, agog.<p>

"_Swore_," Lestrade corrected.

"Either way, Lestrade!" Sherlock snapped, glaring at him.

"Oh please, Sherlock. You do realize he was in the _army_, yes?"

"Sherlock wash my mouth out with _soap_ for sayin' a bad word," John informed him, wide-eyed.

"Not that one, but a far more vulgar alternative that he no doubt picked up from Anderson," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes at the inspector's calculating look.

"You can have a lolly afferwards," John told him seriously. "I like water-melon."

Sherlock smirked, sending a chill down Lestrade's spine.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"I will never bring you another case as long as you live, Sherlock."

John's head bobbed as his gaze flickered back and forth. Then he suddenly sneezed hard enough to slam his whole little body backward, head impacting the inspector's sternum with a thump.

Lestrade jumped. "Holy -"

"Ow," the child whimpered, rubbing his eyes.

"All right there?" he asked, patting the little one's back.

John was still scrubbing his eyes. "S'eepy," he murmured, sniffling.

Lestrade glanced over to Sherlock for tucking-in permission, but the words died on his lips when he saw that evidently John was not the only one exhausted. Sherlock never woke, even when Lestrade snapped a picture of his small flatmate tiptoeing up to him with an orange blanket.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title**: _Never Too Late_ (50-54/?)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** This prompt was the original prompt, and as you can see I didn't get to most of it. Hence, the continuation. Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>"Sherlock tired," John observed in a whisper, standing on tip-toe to peek over the chair-arm at the detective's tousled head.<p>

"So he is, little man," Lestrade murmured, scooping the child up in his arms (after snapping a few photos for blackmail purposes on his phone) and smiling at the giggle he received. "Come on, let's leave him to it, shall we?"

John then proceeded to sneeze a viscous puddle into both hands, and looked completely unrepentant at the inspector's dismayed expression.

Ten minutes later, he'd cleaned up the child, had him use the loo, and bundled him into warm pyjamas. One dose of child's cough syrup and a small cup of milk later, and John was safely ensconced in his bed, blinking drowsily up at Lestrade, who was busy taking his temperature once more.

Fever dropping, which was good, though he knew it might fluctuate during the night. He had three options: stay and watch the child, or leave the flat and trust that John would be able to shout loud enough for Sherlock, or wake Sherlock up. The younger man looked utterly exhausted, and so he decided upon the former - at least until both Sherlock and John had gotten some sleep.

"Story?" John asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes with one fist, the other being curled around his precious bear.

* * *

><p>"Story?" he repeated, mystified.<p>

"Sherlock a'ways tells me story." John pouted, peering up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "_Want_ one."

"Ah, well..." God in heaven help them, what sort of stories would Sherlock consider proper bedtime reading for children? "What kind of story?"

"'Bout me when I'm big," John informed him seriously.

His jaw dropped. "When you're - what?"

"Sherlock says I used t'be big," John explained, talking slowly as if Lestrade was too moronic to understand.

"He told you that?"

"Uh-huh." The little one yawned, reaching his free arm over his head and waving it aimlessly, like a kitten stretching out in the sun. "Somefing happened an' made me little."

"Well, yes," he agreed slowly, mind spinning with this development. "But - why did he tell you that, John; did he give a reason?"

"I 'membered somefing," the child said, shrugging. "Soldier men. Big guns. Fighting, in my head." John frowned, snuggling into his bear. "_Bad_ dreams, 'Strade."

Horrified, he took in this information with a prayer that the child's nightmares would cease. A five-year-old dreaming of Afghanistan? It was _unthinkable_.

"What else did Sherlock tell you, John?" he asked, tucking the blanket around the tiny form.

"He said he wouldn't never leave me again," was the soft murmur, as sleep began to coax at the child's mind and body.

* * *

><p>The DI smiled, as the honest love of a child shone out of the blue eyes blinking sleepily up at him. "That's very good, John. Does Sherlock take good care of you?"<p>

"Mmhmm." John coughed softly into his bear, and Lestrade made a mental note to mention disinfecting to Sherlock. "But his soup is a litt-le dodgy," the child added as an afterthought, and grimaced. "Ew."

Lestrade laughed at the adult phraseology, no doubt overheard from Mrs. Hudson, and caught the little gesturing hand, tucking it back in. "Well I'm afraid I'm not a very good storyteller, John. Shall I put on some music instead?"

"Okay." The sleepy response was barely intelligible, and before Lestrade could figure out how to turn on the iDock (and Sherlock insisted he didn't spoil the kid!) John was fast asleep. The child's breathing was even, if a bit congested, and so he felt justified in popping back to the lounge to check on his other unofficial ward.

Sherlock had shifted positions in his sleep and was now sprawled in an ungainly heap of shock blanket - the man had apparently stolen more of them than Lestrade could count - in the armchair, one leg flung dramatically over the side and his head lolling against the armrest, dark curls just visible over top of the blanket.

* * *

><p>Lestrade actually enjoyed the evening, for the missus was at her sister's for a "girl's weekend out" at the spas, and watching over an adorable little boy and his not-even-close-to-adorable caregiver while consuming the kindhearted Mrs. Hudson's most excellent baking was certainly preferable to eating lukewarm, cheap Thai and hoping Sherlock's creeper brother didn't try to call him for some reason. John's fever fluctuated a bit, causing him unrest, but each time he quieted readily enough when Lestrade sat beside him, soothing the fever-dreams and being a steadying presence for those moments when the child became more awake.<p>

At least he enjoyed the night, until sometime after four in the morning (he'd nodded off after the child's fever went back down around 2:30) Sherlock woke himself up by rolling off his armchair and landing on the hearth with a crash loud enough to wake Mrs. Turner's married ones. It was certainly loud enough to wake both Lestrade and one small, sickly little boy, who jerked upright in terror and looked wildly about, tears already starting to well up.

"Hey, hey, shhhh," he said quickly, moving to obey the plea of outstretched arms. "It's just Sherlock, bet you he snored himself awake, eh? D'you think we should go see if he broke something?"

John giggled quietly into his shoulder, sudden fright banished.

* * *

><p>Only Sherlock would look so disgruntled for succumbing to a level of child-rearing-related exhaustion which would have floored the best nanny weeks ago. The amateur sat on the floor in a miffed pile of blanket and wrinkled jacket, squinting blearily at his mobile.<p>

John giggled again. "His hair's all messed up," the boy whispered with glee into his protector's ear, and Lestrade resisted the urge to laugh at the sight.

"It is four in the _morning_, Inspector," Sherlock snapped at length, glowering up at them from his blanket-shawl. "What is he doing up?"

"Sick," John informed him succinctly. "I's _entitled_."

"The devil is he finding this vocabulary all of a sudden?" Lestrade asked, incredulous.

Sherlock raked long fingers through his hair, and frowned. "John, how old are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Six!"

"Um..."

"Precisely, Lestrade. Given that Dr. Pendleton believed the illness to be due in part to the body's consumption of energy for rapid growth, it is no great feat to deduce that John would enter a growth spurt soon." Sherlock glided gracefully upward, took a step forward, and promptly forgot the blanket which coiled 'round his legs like an orange fleece snake. He crashed headfirst at Lestrade's feet, amid a round of giggles from his diminutive flatmate.

"I really do _hate_ children," Lestrade heard uttered mournfully into the floor-boards.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title**: _Never Too Late_ (55-58/?)  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Sherlock, baby!John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, variations on that theme  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: kidfic, ghastly amounts of fluff, oblique references to slight (non-graphic and non-sexual) child abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Continuation of A Messy Business. Due to Mycroft's scientists' experiment-gone-wrong, John is not going to revert to his adult age instantaneously, but gradually age over a projected period of about four weeks. Sherlock finds himself in the position of caring for a child for a month, and much to everyone's shock comes through with flying colors.  
><strong>AN:** Title comes from the quote_ "It is never too late to have a happy childhood." ~Tom Robbins, 1936_

* * *

><p>Much cajoling and a lime ice-lolly from the (thankfully finger-less) freezer finally coaxed John back into bed. Lestrade then turned his attention to Sherlock, and within five minutes he had also crashed, still fully-clothed, and was snoring obliviously.<p>

The DI grinned, plugged Sherlock's mobile in, and quietly left, hoping to get a few hours' sleep himself before heading to the office. Hopefully Sherlock would get some rest too, or he feared for the man's patience levels the next few days…

-0-

Sherlock Holmes was a light sleeper, except on those rare occasions when his mental hard drive literally shut down to prevent crashing. It did not take more than the flushing toilet to alert him that he probably should check on his sickly young charge.

Rubbing his eyes, he raised the other hand to the door and nearly fell inside when a small bundle of sniffly pajamas pulled it open.

John shrieked and scooted backward from the looming figure.

"Scared me!"

"My apologies," Sherlock mumbled wearily. "I had presumed you might require assistance; I perceive I was in error."

John blinked.

Sherlock woke up and rolled his eyes. "I thought you might need help, John; obviously not."

"I don' need _help_ using the loo!" the child exclaimed indignantly.

_Whyyyyy_ did Lestrade abandon him to dealing with an affronted six-year-old, Sherlock mentally bewailed.

* * *

><p>By 14:00, Sherlock was tearing his hair out, John was stroppy and verbally mourning his bed-and-couch-bound state loud enough to be heard in the entire 200 block of Baker Street; and when Lestrade finally answered the thirty-fourth SOS from Sherlock and arrived at 17:00 with Chinese takeaway, he was slightly creeped out by the almost worshipping enthusiasm with which he was greeted by the resident self-professed sociopath.<p>

"Thank _God_," Sherlock growled when he appeared at the top of the stairs.

"'Strade!" A fluttering blanket coiled 'round his legs as John barreled into them, and he smiled down at the upturned face.

"How're you feeling, kid?" he asked, handing the bags of takeaway to Sherlock.

"Icky," was John's answer, with a well-practiced pout.

Sherlock dug through the bag with a sceptical eye. "Chicken-fried rice, no onion?"

"Yes, Sherlock," he sighed, extricating his legs from John's grip.

"I want egg rolls!"

"You _want_ a _sedative_," Sherlock retorted, slumping onto the couch with his rice and chicken clutched protectively to his chest.

"Long day?" Lestrade asked mildly.

"Sherlock made me stay in bed all morning!" John complained, tugging at Lestrade's trouser leg.

The DI plopped him into a chair and shortly had him situated with a makeshift bib and a carton of Chinese. "You're sick, John. That's what sick little boys do."

"I'm better!"

* * *

><p>"You still have a fever and have been exceedingly cranky," Sherlock said 'round a mouthful of rice.<p>

John stuck a chicken-covered tongue out at him, and began digging through his rice carton for the bits of mushroom. He had flicked a dozen out onto the chair-arm before Lestrade caught him.

"Did Sherlock give you your antibiotics this morning?" he asked, after scolding the child for his actions.

"Huh?"

"Yes, Lestrade. Mixed into his nutrient shake at breakfast. Also, a bath, cough syrup, and chewable vitamins. Have I forgotten anything?"

"You fo'got to gimme my biscuit at lunch," John piped up, spraying rice in a twelve-inch radius.

"Horror of horrors," Sherlock muttered dryly.

Lestrade chuckled. "Apparently he's feeling a bit better. Has your brother told you anything else about him, Sherlock?"

"No. He appears to be on schedule for a four-week retransformation, give or take a few days." Sherlock stretched slowly. "There is little any of us can do to accelerate the process, as his delay is an entirely unknown factor."

John sneezed suddenly, and his fork jerked, spilling rice down the side of the chair.

"Whoa, easy there, kiddo. Here." Lestrade wiped the child's face, much to John's grumbled disgust. "I've a case I need your opinion on, by the way," he added over his shoulder.

Sherlock jerked upright, eyes bright.

* * *

><p>"Why didn't you say so when you came in, Lestrade?" Sherlock demanded in irritation.<p>

"I had this little octopus wrapped around my legs," he retorted, ruffling John's tousled hair. John smiled up at him, plastic fork buried firmly between his teeth. "Notes are in my coat pocket…yes, right, of course you can get them," he muttered, as he was pounced upon.

Sherlock retreated with his precious notes, takeaway forgotten on the coffee-table. John raked the fork from between his teeth and then paused, looking surprised.

"Okay, John?"

"Somefing's weird," the child replied, frowning.

"John, do not put your fingers in your mouth; it is highly unsanitary," Sherlock admonished absently.

"Ow!" John's face scrunched up. He wiggled his jaw, then poked his tongue against a front tooth. "Is loose!" he exclaimed.

Lestrade grinned. "Have fun with that, then," he told the top of Sherlock's head.

"Mmh. Lestrade, really, it's pitifully obvious that the sister-in-law is responsible. Must I do _everything_ for your people?"

"Considering your opinion of them, you have to ask?"

"Good point. John?" The child had squirmed off the chair and clambered up beside Sherlock.

"Don' feel good," John said, face upturned woefully.

"Annnnd here we go again," Sherlock sighed. "Detective Inspector, be so good as to give me a twenty-four hour head start once you find my brother's body?"


End file.
